


Stranger with Orange Hair

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-31
Updated: 2005-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-19 03:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12402207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Harry embarks on his first mission in the gritty Muggle world of "vomit and cigarettes and death," but his plan is upset when he encounters a too-friendly stranger with orange hair on the train. *Scrivenshaft winner, Cheering Charm*





	Stranger with Orange Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

It was another September 1st, and Harry found himself once again at King's Cross Station in London. But he halted at the typically grimy and putrid Platform 6, frowning at the smouldering cigarette butts and spilled coffee and gray spots of gum that spattered the concrete floor. The station was filled with people impatient to get to jobs they hated, people unduly irritated by the violin-player near the lifts.

The violin-player. Harry approached him and tossed a coin into the musician's violin case–a bronze knut. A quick flicker of recognition in the man's eyes, a barely perceptible incline of the head–was all the reaction Harry received. But it was enough. This was the train he needed to board. The Order would be alerted of his whereabouts; the violin-player would see to that.

Then why did he feel so hesitant? Harry rubbed the back of his neck and let his gaze wander. It was September 1st, and here he was. He could rush across the station and board the Hogwarts Express, if he wanted, and maybe things would go back to seeming almost-normal for a few months. Almost... but no, that era was over. His childhood was gone, and too soon; Hogwarts would feels more foreign than Mars, now. He belonged...here. Here in gritty London. Here where magic wasn't law; where people were mugged and worse every day; where good didn't always triumph over evil. He belonged here, surreptitiously exchanging knuts with an Auror disguised as a Muggle musician in the train station.

Here, good _didn't_ always triumph over evil. But Harry would do everything in his power to see that good bloody well would triumph, this time.

\- - - - -

A train rumbled into the station, and Harry boarded it. Everywhere about him, people studiously avoided eye contact with each other. Harry, too, cast his gaze downwards to his Muggle slacks, his Muggle sneakers. Bored, he pulled out a battered paperback– _Quiddich Through the Ages_ –and began to read with a fierceness of concentration that stemmed from every part of him that wanted to be a carefree kid again, on the Hogwarts Express instead of some dirty London train. He was very focused on the book...

...Which was why he started when a girl sitting to his right suddenly spoke. "A little obvious, yeah?" she said with a smirk.

Harry's eyes flew up from the page and his hand was instantly at his wand. He stared hard at the girl, for a moment, trying to figure out what seemed familiar about her–he couldn't place it. A few earrings protruded from the edge of her ear, and her unnaturally orange hair boasted the tell-tale lacklustre sheen of a bad dye job. But her eyes, from within thick black rims of eyeliner, were penetrating and intelligent.

"Excuse me?" Harry said, his stomach sinking like a lead weight.

She gestured towards Harry's book. "You a fan, then? Well who isn't, of course, but you've got to be a bit daft to read a book like that when you're trying so hard to pass off as a Muggle." Here she indicated her own attire–black jeans, Sex Pistols t-shirt, and other such Brit-punk paraphernalia–as if to indicate how _proper_ Muggles dressed. "But then," she continued, "you must be a Cannons fan; they always _were_ a bit obtuse, I thought, what with sporting such horrid colours and all that."

Harry stared at the girl for a moment–first considering that with her hair, she really shouldn't be one to criticise the Cannons' colours–then wondering what tack he should use in reply. He decided to feign ignorance. "Sorry, what? Muggle?" he said in what he hoped was a convincingly puzzled tone.

"Oh pish posh, don't be such a wanker. I'm not a Death Eater or anything like that, Merlin no. Honestly, can't imagine a Death Eater bantering about the Chudley Cannons, yeah?" After a moment, she put a hand to her hair and asked in a slightly less confident tone, "Bugger, do I have something in my hair? I know I'm pretty but staring at me like that is really quite rude."

"Uh–no, sorry. Um, excuse me, but you are...?" Harry stammered.

She smiled prettily and removed her hand from her orange hair, folding it instead in her lap. "You don't recognise me, Harry?"

"I, uh–I seem to–can't seem to place your name, sorry. Tip of my tongue, y'know."

"Ah, I understand," she replied, but made no move to introduce herself. "So, where're you off to on this lovely September morning? This train heads to a not-so-spic-n-span part of London, you know."

"I know, I know..." said Harry, still wracking his brain to remember the Order protocol for what to do if one is recognized when trying to pass as a Muggle, incognito. Nothing came to mind. "Listen, um, I'm sorry to be rude but where I'm heading is really not any of your business, nor is my reading material–"

"–or your Quiddich team affiliations, apparently," she muttered under her breath.

Harry exhaled loudly through his nostrils. "Listen, can we just end this conversation? I'm sorry."

"Yeah, fine," she said with a little bitterness, and a little of something else. "I just hope that nobody asks me if I've seen a certain black-haired, lightning-scarred wizard hereabouts, or I may...just..." _yawn_ "...slip up."

Harry spun back towards her, his eyes fierce. "Listen, I just–I'm just trying to get a job done and you–I mean, who are you, anyway? How do you know me, and why in _Merlin's name_ are you–provoking me?!" Other passengers had turned to eavesdrop on the altercation at this point, so Harry lowered his voice, a pained look on his face. "Just–who are you?"

She beckoned for him to lean towards her, and she bent till her mouth was at his ear. "Wotcher, Harry," she whispered, grinning maniacally.

"Merlin– _Tonks_?!"

"Hah, I love messin' with you, Harry. I'm your guard today. So then: _are_ you a Cannons fan?"

\- - - - -

As he fought to keep a properly irritated look on his face, Harry realised something. No, he would never be a child again. People would always be rushing through their fucking lives. Maybe good only triumphs on sunny days in London (which is to say, not often). Strangers can recognise you when you're supposed to be undercover. The train smelled like vomit and cigarettes and death.

But there were people in the world like Tonks, who wasn't above plastering Johnny Rotten's face across her chest and scaring him witless during his first mission–just for a good laugh. Voldemort had _nothing_ on that.


End file.
